Mistral
by Eleni the Tiny Elf
Summary: Takes place two days after the Fellowship has left Lothlorien - Frodo falls quite ill while sailing down the Anduin and must be taken care of by Aragorn and the rest of the Fellowship. Hurt/comfort, graphic medical detail and hobbit bums ;)
1. Rough Sailing

MISTRAL  
  
"Ooh . . . "  
  
Samwise Gamgee looked up sharply from his reverie, sitting in front of Aragorn in the boat as they travelled towards the Argonath, the figures only doll-sized from the vantage point of the three boats, shifting and swirling a little with the current of the river.  
  
The Ringbearer, hobbit Frodo Baggins, had been quiet since they had left Lothlorien. Every so often Sam had caught Aragorn looking at Frodo with a slight worried look on his face, but he didn't ask any questions and Frodo volunteered no information. The rest of the Fellowship could be heard laughing and chatting together as they manoeuvred the boats towards the distant figures in the southeast, and not for the first time, Sam wished that he was with the others for awhile, joining in on the jokes. He loved Mr. Frodo and would do anything for him, but a hobbit had to have some merriment - all work and no play, well, that just wasn't done, where Sam was concerned. Every little noise made him jump, and Mr. Frodo wouldn't tell him anything, just sat, silent as a stone.  
  
Frodo was sitting hunched in the boat, his face set and white, his hands clenched firmly on his lap. Aragorn was lost in his own thoughts, rowing smoothly through the sparkling water, and didn't notice Sam lean forward, shifting the weight in the boat slightly.  
  
"Mr. Frodo, sir? Not to be a bother, but you've been awful quiet since we left the elf-forest . . ." Sam's voice trailed off uncertainly, rising at the end in suggestion.  
  
Frodo looked with dull blue eyes at Sam. "Nothing, Sam, don't worry about me." He cleared his throat, looking like he was swallowing something down, and spoke to Aragorn, who was staring glassy-eyed ahead at the wide river.  
  
"Aragorn . . . I wondered, as dangerous as it is, if we - " His voice cut off as the boat rolled a little, listing gently to the port side before righting itself. Frodo's face went even whiter and he clutched the sides of the boat tightly before relaxing and finishing his sentence. "If we could go ashore for an hour or two?"  
  
Aragorn looked up. "I'd rather we not, Frodo, but if you're tired, we can dock for a moment to let Sam go over to Legolas' and Gimli's boat and you could lie down here."  
  
Frodo nodded, although Sam looked horrified at being separated from his master, even though a few moments ago he was wishing for some new company. Aragorn called in Elvish to Legolas, then in Westron to Boromir, and the boats cut smoothly across the water to the western shore, where a small clearing in the never-ending tree line created a small beach.   
  
The company crunched up onto the sand and Frodo shakily alighted, spurning Sam's well-meant offer of a hand. He didn't bother to tell Aragorn that he was leaving the beach for a moment, but simply went through the trees to a relatively bushy spot, where he lowered his breeches just in time.  
  
His bowels evacuated quickly, causing the cramping in his tummy to lessen for a moment. He wasn't sure what was wrong, but he'd been feeling quite unwell since the morning the Fellowship had left Lothlorien, vomiting once over the side of the ivory boat (very embarrassing and making him subject to hoots and jeers from Merry and Pippin) and once last night, after a meagre dinner of lembas.   
  
He'd chalked this biliousness up to seasickness or indigestion (because after eating Elvish food, one's tummy took awhile to get used to the less-rich nourishment of everyday life, as Frodo had found after leaving Rivendell), but he didn't think that indigestion lasted two days, and he was certain that seasickness did not include bowel trouble, which had started that morning.   
  
After relieving himself, Frodo stood, letting his dizzy head stop swimming around before walking back to the beach, where the passenger-change had been made, Sam looking decidedly annoyed at being put in with Legolas and Gimli, although he'd been developing a rather flattering hero-worship for the Elf. Aragorn looked concerned as he swung Frodo into the boat, where a nice bed of blankets and everyone's extra clothing packs had been set up for the hobbit. Aragorn had put up with much on this trip from Frodo's health, and he wasn't about to let the hobbit fade this close to Mordor.  
  
Frodo lay back on the blankets, feeling comfortable for the first time in two days. However, once Aragorn had pushed off, the rolling of the water beneath the base of the boat made his stomach turn over ominously, and fearing the worst, he sat up suddenly, causing Aragorn to look at him with surprise.  
  
"Frodo? Are you all right?"  
  
"Aragorn . . . I . . . I think . . ." Frodo didn't have time to say more before the half-digested contents of his stomach made themselves known, arcing over the clean blankets to spatter on the bow and hull of the boat at Frodo's feet.  
  
Aragorn didn't blink, but simply patted Frodo's back. "There now, get it all up then . . . I suspected you weren't feeling very well, were you? I think I've got some gingerroot . . . that should take away that seasickness . . ." He rummaged in his pack but stopped as Frodo's tiny cold hand gripped his wrist.  
  
"Aragorn, we need to stop. Now."  
  
"Frodo, we've just gotten off again. I know you don't feel well, but if you need to vomit again, just lean over the side of the boat until it's finished with. I've got the very last of the gingerroot here . . ." Aragorn held up the twisted dun root.  
  
"No . . . not that . . ." Frodo squinched his eyes shut, his back straightening, tiny buttocks clenching. "Have to . . . relief myself . . ."  
  
Aragorn's eyes widened and he looked at the fast receding shore. "The next landing point is three miles away . . . oh dear." His sharp grey eyes scanned the tree line and he sighed, knowing it was futile. "Just a moment."  
  
Paddling quickly so that he drew alongside the boat where Sam, Legolas and Gimli were chatting away about different styles of cooking, he quickly got the Elf's attention. "Legolas, where is the pack with the cooking supplies?"  
  
Legolas looked up. "I believe I saw Sam here take it. Do you remember which boat you put it in, little one?"  
  
But Sam was already rummaging in the luggage that filled the stern of the canoe, and with a clanking noise, he pulled it out. "Here, Strider," he said, tossing it into Frodo's and Aragorn's boat, shooting a concerned look at Frodo, whose desperate look was growing more intense by the moment.  
  
Aragorn nodded and gave Sam a rare smile. "Thank you, Sam." He paddled away from them until he was several yards out of earshot and then looking through the sack, pulled out the large cooking pot and put it on the flat part of the floor of the canoe after filling it with a half-inch of water.   
  
Because he knew Frodo was afraid to move, he leaned forward and gently lifted the tense little form, putting him squarely on the pot. Frodo was already undoing his breeches and as soon as his little bottom touched the cold metal, he was already relieving his cramped and irritated bowels, his white face turning a light shade of rose at the foulness and embarrassment. He pulled a blanket overtop of his bare legs.  
  
Aragorn read his mind and turned himself around, to give Frodo a little privacy. "You can use that until we pull ashore at the next clearing. We'll go no farther today."  
  
And Frodo hung on grimly until they stopped once again.  
  
~To be Continued~ 


	2. Mishaps

Mistral 2/?  
Thank goodness the weather was holding out at least, thought Frodo as he clung to the sides of Sam's cooking pot in the rocking boat as it glided down the Anduin. He was feeling horrible - not only did he have to throw up every five minutes, but he had to relieve his poor irritated bowels in front of Aragorn, in a cooking pot! He'd already had to empty the thing three times in the last fifteen minutes, and he was about ready to cry. Aragorn, however, bless his soul, didn't seem to mind Frodo's indisposition. It came from being a healer, Frodo guessed. The future king of Gondor had turned his back wisely to save the poor hobbit some embarrassment, though not much. Frodo still felt like a child, more a baby than ever before. He looked eagerly ahead to where the beach was visible on the western shore of the river.   
  
However, unfortunately for Frodo and the Fellowship, the aforesaid distance of three miles to the next clearing was doubled when the boats were becalmed on the sparkling water. Aragorn cursed and began to paddle as quickly as he could, but this had its effects on the sick hobbit lying on the blankets in the base of the canoe, as was manifested by the sudden groaning and then unmistakable gagging from the violent movements. Also, without the wind, the sounds of poor Frodo's sickness was quite audible as they travelled across the water to the other boats. By this time, everyone's heads were turned, staring at the boat that lay a few yards behind the others, Sam's blonde curly pate bobbing frantically as he tried to get a look at Frodo, who slumped further in the boat, trying to evade everyone's curious glances.  
  
After an hour, where Frodo had thrown up countless times and had to relieve himself at least ten times more, the boats crunched up on the sand at the clearing on the western shore. Almost as soon as they docked, Sam was overboard in his haste to see Frodo, splashing through water up to his neck. Legolas swiftly lifted him back into the boat until they reached the shore, telling Sam to wait just another moment until they were tied.  
  
Aragorn tied his canoe, then leaned back over it, wrapping Frodo securely in his blankets before carefully lifting him out, trying not to jostle him. By this time the rest of the Fellowship was on the beach and crowding around Aragorn, questions flying left and right as they tried to figure out what was wrong with Frodo. The poor little hobbit closed his eyes, trying to ignore the hubbub around him as the very sound of it made him dizzy. Aragorn waved them all away, sending Merry and Pippin to gather firewood, Legolas to find some berries and mushrooms for dinner and Boromir and Gimli to pitch the tents given to them by Galadriel's contingent two days earlier. Sam he let stay beside his master.  
  
Once the fire was going, Aragorn gently laid Frodo beside its warmth and unwrapped him carefully, checking him over as he drew back the blankets. Frodo was as white as a ghost, shivering uncontrollably, to the point where he could barely speak. As Aragorn put his ear beside Frodo's chest, he could hear the hobbit's tummy and intestines gurgling, popping and growling ominously, and drew back just in time to avoid a spray of sour stomach contents flying past his left ear.   
  
Frodo apologised miserably, blue eyes wide and overbright with tears. "I'm extremely sorry, Aragorn, I didn't realise . . ."  
  
"Never mind, Frodo. Just rest while we get the ginger tea brewing." Aragorn looked at Sam, who was rummaging through his packs, looking for his big cooking pot to boil some water for tea and soup.   
  
"Strider, sir, you haven't seen my big cooking pot, have you? Just that I want to get supper on, so I do." The hobbit's confused brown eyes met Aragorn's serious grey ones and the man stifled laughter.   
  
"I'm afraid we'll have to make do with the smaller one, Sam. The other one is . . . damaged."   
  
Sam nodded, his face still confused, as a tired laugh came from the blue-eyed bundle of blankets by the fire and Aragorn turned his face away from the good natured hobbit to disguise the twitching of his mouth. He bit the corners to keep from laughing and continued his gentle examination of Frodo. He took the frail little arm in his big brown hands and gently pressed the white skin - it gave under his finger, but stayed dented for a moment before it returned to its normal smooth state. Aragorn frowned; Frodo was very dehydrated.  
  
By this point, the sun had set in a glorious painted sky over the tree line. The two tents were up, the fire started and Legolas and Gimli were back not only with a multitude of varieties of fruits and plants, but also two coneys that Legolas had shot while on their foraging mission. Sam accepted them happily and before they all knew it, a wonderful mushroom and coney stew was bubbling on one side of the fire, and ginger tea gave off its piquant scent on the other side. Aragorn had taken the vomit-stained blankets from around Frodo and was energetically splashing them clean in the river just beyond the fire. Two more blankets were already drying on an ingenious frame, built by Boromir, above the flames.  
  
Aragorn returned from his labours to find that Frodo was huddled in a ball away from the others, shivering and looking miserable. The little hobbit was far from the fire and ignoring Sam's efforts to get him to drink some of the ginger tea. Aragorn stepped in, putting a hand on Sam's shoulder and bidding him go back to cooking the supper with the others.  
  
Aragorn settled himself with a sigh beside the fire and took down the warmed and dried blankets from the drying rack. He was shaking them out and getting them ready to wrap around Frodo when the hobbit stopped him, putting up a tiny hand. "Aragorn . . . oh, I hardly know how to tell you this . . ."  
  
Aragorn looked up. "What is amiss, little one?"  
  
"Well," said poor Frodo, "when you were washing the blankets, I'm afraid I had to relieve myself again . . . " He stopped, face flushing red in the light of the fire.  
  
Aragorn began to see where this was going. "It's all right, Frodo, I've heard much worse than this. Go on."  
  
"Well, I didn't exactly . . . make it." The little hobbit was blushing fiercely now and Aragorn saw that this explained his separation from the rest of the group. Frodo's blue eyes filled with tears. "I'm so very sorry . . ."  
  
"Never mind. We'll remedy it." Aragorn didn't know exactly how he was going to bathe the sick hobbit in the freezing waters of the Anduin without making him more ill, but he didn't want to heat water and alert the others to Frodo's embarrassment. Conversely, he didn't want to leave Frodo in the soiled clothing, either.  
  
Rising from his place by the fire, he took a rag from his undertunic, which was relatively clean compared to his other clothing, and went down to the river to wet it thoroughly. Coming back, he gently lifted Frodo and went into one of the tents, where Boromir had already lit a lantern, knowing from previous illnesses on the Quest that Aragorn would put Frodo to bed within the hour. He laid the sick hobbit on a bedroll, then paused, wondering how to make him more comfortable without making him feel like a baby. Although hobbits were child-sized, Frodo was well past his coming-of-age, and Aragorn knew that he secretly struggled with the annoyance that the two men, Dwarf and the Elf treated him younger than he really was.  
  
In the end, Aragorn simply handed the wet cloth to Frodo and made to leave, but the little hobbit suddenly vomited again, thankfully turning onto his side, away from the blankets, so that the mess landed on the dirt floor of the tent. Frodo felt a sudden rush of damp heat as well, and he groaned audibly, refusing to meet Aragorn's eyes.   
  
Aragorn came back in, tying the tent flap securely, and came over to the sick hobbit. "Would you . . . permit me to assist you, Frodo?"  
  
Frodo cleared his throat, feeling younger and more vulnerable than ever. "That would be helpful, thank you." His voice was tight as he tried to keep it from breaking.  
  
Aragorn silently took his place by the hobbit and drew off the minute soiled trousers and knickers. Boromir had helpfully placed Frodo's pack beside the hobbit's bedroll, and Aragorn took out some new clothing. He gently took the damp cloth and attended to Frodo's little bottom, then wrapped a towel around his loins, pinning it with a bone needle. He knew this wouldn't be the last accident and picked up the hobbit's dirty clothing, meaning to go and wash it before stains set in. However, Frodo stopped him.   
  
"Aragorn . . . please don't leave me here alone," he begged the man, trying to keep his voice light. "I mean, I would appreciate your company." Damn! Why did his voice break every time he tried to speak? And did Aragorn really put him in a nappy? This was easily the worst day of the poor hobbit's life.  
  
"I'll be back in a moment, Frodo, and we'll go and sit by the fire. It's too cold for you here." Aragorn left and washed Frodo's clothing, then spread them to dry. He passed the fire, where Legolas had thoughtfully placed the dropped blankets back onto the drying rack, and shooting a smile at the Elf, he took them and came back into the tent. Wrapping Frodo securely up, he lifted him carefully and sat down by the fire, settling Frodo comfortably in his lap.  
  
Sam came up to them, bearing a mug of ginger tea and a bowl of broth from the stew, and Legolas brought another blanket to wrap around the hobbit. Merry and Pippin looked on, concernedly, and Boromir seemed in his own little world, though he had helped out with setting out the bedrolls and packs. Gimli harrumphed and started a story about jewel-setting for the hobbits to take their minds off Frodo's illness, while Aragorn gently spooned some tea into Frodo's pink little mouth.   
  
The moon rose and Aragorn sighed - it would be a long night.  
  
~To be continued~ 


	3. Gale Force

Gale Force  
  
It was a horrible night.  
  
To all intents and purposes, it didn't actually look that bad, if you weren't a sick little hobbit with "both-ends" syndrome. The fire was burning brightly, its light reflecting the glittering stars above; the coney stew smelled divine and its greasy steam curled upwards to the heavens; the Fellowship sprawled around the fire, for once happy to have a break from what was seeming to be the eternal Quest, and their laughter and jokes echoed across the moonlit river Anduin, accompanied by the soothing sounds of the tied canoes rocking gently on the waves, bumping into each other with a hollow note every once in awhile.  
  
But Frodo was suffering. Aragorn had the little hobbit cradled in his lap, and had been trying to feed him tiny sips of ginger tea to settle his bilious stomach, but no sooner had Frodo tried to be co-operative and swallowed a spoonful of the spicy-sweet hot tea then it would come belting back up out of his acid-blistered mouth, often ending up all over his nightshirt, arms, legs, hands, chin and Aragorn's tunic and breeches. Not that it really mattered there, however; Aragorn's clothing was weathered and stained beyond any hope of repair. Still, Frodo felt awful, and was nearing the point that everyone gets to with this illness - he wanted someone just to put him out of his misery.  
  
It wasn't only the vomiting - Frodo had to relieve himself every five minutes, and if he didn't do it right away, accidents would occur. Aragorn kept the handy cooking pot by his side, ready to get up and run as soon as Frodo even hinted at the urgent matter, but half the time it didn't matter - it was too late. This, thought Frodo to himself as he tossed in Aragorn's arms, this was the worst - the fact that he could barely control himself and had gone through nearly all of his pairs of knickers and breeches for the whole journey was incredibly embarrassing, not to mention unthinkable. Thankfully, Sam had volunteered to wash the soiled clothing in the river, but Frodo had told him to leave them until he was better. Nevertheless, the faithful gardener had gathered up the mess and Frodo could hear him at the river now, splashing energetically, most likely doing his level best to make Frodo as comfortable and as worry-free as possible.  
  
Aragorn's face, always impassive, now held a look of slight worry as he looked at his sick little charge. Frodo was incredibly dehydrated - all that was coming out of him now during the spasms of sickness was sour bile mixed with the tiny bit of tea that Aragorn had been able to get down the hobbit's throat. Frodo's voice was hoarse from the constant acid on his throat and his mouth and lips were blistered, dry and cracking from the vomiting. Aragorn hadn't had a chance to check Frodo's bottom, but he could bet from the way the hobbit was squirming around in his lap that it too, was blistered from the illness. And then there was Frodo's fever.  
  
It had shot up alarmingly within the past hour - the hobbit alternately shivered and sweated with the hot and cold. His face was deathly pale, tinged with grey, and Aragorn knew in his heart (though he attempted to ignore it) that if something could not be done soon, Frodo would die.  
  
The company around the fire was beginning to become subdued. The hour was late, and Aragorn knew that they would have to get an early start. Legolas looked as wide awake as ever, but Gimli, Merry, Pippin, and Boromir looked exhausted. Aragorn nodded to Legolas and asked him to stay behind while the others trooped off to the tents. Gimli muttered that he was taking the one furthest from Frodo, a sentiment that the hobbit couldn't help overhearing. Frodo turned towards Aragorn and buried his face in the man's chest, sighing deeply with despair.  
  
Legolas trotted over to Aragorn and spoke. "Estel, how is he?" Frodo felt a cool fingertip drawing his hot little face away from Aragorn and towards the fire and he tried to resist - he knew Legolas meant well, but he was so tired . . . couldn't they let him alone?  
  
"Come, come, little one . . . let me see you. I'm trying to help," said the Elf, and was gratified to see the hobbit co-operate grudgingly. "Estel, may I take him?"  
  
"He's very ill, Legolas, I won't lie to you, I've never seen someone with this virus this sick before. It mostly strikes children, and I suppose since Frodo is child-sized (begging your pardon, Master Hobbit), that he is showing the same severity of symptoms. I don't have the correct herbs for healing him at the moment and I do not know who does. How far are we from Lorien?" Aragorn's face was lined and worried by the light of the fire.  
  
"I would say three days at most, Estel, but we cannot go back at this point. Our time becomes ever-shorter, and backtracking would lose us precious moments. However . . . there is legend that a group of Elves lives beside this river, and if this rumour is true, then they would certainly have the healing methods to cure this poor soul." Legolas held out his arms and Aragorn transferred Frodo over to him, stretching his cramped muscles gratefully.  
  
"I am going to wash my hands and, er . . . other things," said Aragorn, looking ruefully down at his stained outfit. "I'll send Sam back up here and please make sure, Legolas, that he goes to bed. Two sick hobbits would be a casualty that this Quest cannot handle. I will send Sam with some heated water and perhaps you could ready Frodo for a sponge-bath? He really cannot go to bed like that . . ." The man's grey eyes traveled over the poor hobbit's vomit-and-diarrhoea-stained clothing.  
  
"I don't think I'll sleep anyway, Aragorn, but thank you all the same," said Frodo hoarsely, determined to have some say in this turn of events. He tossed fretfully in the Elf's arms and Legolas looked down at him concernedly. "Little one, are you all right? We don't need to . . . remedy anything?"  
  
Frodo smiled wanly up at the Elf's slightly embarrassed face. "Not as yet, but I'm not promising anything. These things have a way of - "  
  
The end of his sentence was obscured by a horrid gagging noise and a shower of stomach contents hit the ground beside the Elf. Frodo sighed and scrubbed a hand across his mouth. "Sneaking up on you," he finished tiredly.  
  
Legolas ran a cool hand over the fevered brow and murmured something in Elvish that Frodo didn't understand, although the words sounded familiar. "Rest now, Frodo. Be assured that we are on the lookout and doing all we can for you." Legolas began to sing softly and Frodo shut his eyes, trying to quell the violent shaking that had just come upon his limbs.  
  
It was some time later when Sam came trundling up to the fire, his cheerful rosy face set into his normal smile. About to speak to Mr. Frodo, Sam was quickly hushed by Legolas, who pointed at the finally-sleeping hobbit. Frodo was curled, like a child, in the Elf's arms and his breathing was deep and even, eyelashes fluttering slightly as he slept.  
  
Sam nodded understandingly and poked up the fire, spreading Frodo's minute trousers and knickers over the drying rack that Boromir had built earlier. He suddenly yawned. Legolas looked up.  
  
"Go to bed, good hobbit - you have been a tremendous help. Frodo is asleep now, and that is the best for him. I am going off tonight to attempt to find the legendary tribe of Elves that is said to reside in these woods. They will have the means to help Frodo. Aragorn will wake you if and when he needs your assistance, so rest assured that you will not be overlooked."  
  
Sam nodded again, but frowned. "I would personally rather stay with Mr. Frodo, Mr. Legolas, sir. He's my friend and master, and I know how to make him feel better."  
  
"Yes, but Sam, if you continue to overwork yourself, you will become ill like your friend. We cannot deal with two sick Halflings and Aragorn needs everyone's help to heal Frodo."  
  
Sam sighed. "Very well, but you tell Strider that he's to wake me if anythin' happens, you hear?" His voice, so jolly most times, had a harsh, worried edge to it. Sam squared his shoulders staunchly and nodding again at the Elf, crawled into the tent nearest the fire.  
  
Legolas sighed and rocked Frodo gently, humming under his breath again as he waited for Aragorn.  
  
He didn't wait long - the human came striding up over the riverbank not two minutes later. He looked slightly cleaner and carried a basin of water in his arms, which he immediately set on the fire before coming straight to the Elf. "How is he?"  
  
"Asleep, and thank Eru. He had three more spasms since you went, and started a trembling in his lower limbs," said Legolas, and pointed to Frodo's shivering legs. "Also, he has begun to lose the fur on his feet." Sure enough, patches of white showed through the thick dark hair on the hobbit's overlarge feet.  
  
Aragorn looked grave. "You will go tonight to find the Elven-tribe?"  
  
Legolas nodded. "As quick as I can, and bring them here, if they are to be found, by the dawn." He sighed. "If only I could be sure that I was not just chasing a fable!"  
  
Aragorn sighed as well, but did not break Legolas' strong blue gaze. "We must keep hope, and perhaps the Valar will bless us as they have done others in our situation. Frodo is too precious to slip away . . . surely they will not let such an important individual die!"  
  
"Others more important and more loved have died, Estel . . . we must prepare for the worst, even still."  
  
Aragorn gently took the sleeping hobbit from Legolas' arms. "Go now, friend Elf, and find your kin. We must do everything we can to save Frodo . . . time is running short, he is having trouble breathing . . ." Both the Elf and the man looked down at Frodo, who was beginning to wheeze. "It is possible the constant regurgitation of acid has entered his lungs and he is having reflux, but I do not want to wait."  
  
Legolas nodded and patting Aragorn's shoulder, rose gracefully to his feet. "I will go. Take care of him, and the others, Estel." He gently touched Frodo's cheek, and was gone, racing over the uneven ground until his light footfalls could no longer be heard on the drying leaves.  
  
Aragorn watched him until he faded out of sight, then fought a shiver as he realised he was utterly alone. No one else was awake, and even if they had been, none of the others would have been able to help him with healing the sick hobbit that lay in his lap.  
  
Frodo chose that time to awaken, immediately disgorging his stomach contents over Aragorn's clean tunic and his own nightshirt. Also, he felt the all-too-familiar rush of wet heat over his bottom and groaned, knowing that there was no chance that Aragorn could have missed it. When he could breathe, he looked at the man's face above him. "I'm so incredibly sorry, Aragorn . . . this is horrid . . ." He resisted the urge to bury his face again.  
  
Aragorn simply hoisted Frodo into a sitting position and rubbed the tiny back soothingly. "Nevermind, Frodo, I was about to bathe and change you anyway. Legolas has gone to find the Elven-tribe rumoured to live in these woods. They should have herbs to heal you," he said, trying to keep his voice cheerful. He gently spread a clean, warmed blanket from atop the drying rack beside them and laid Frodo on it, who could not keep a whimper out of his voice as he was put down.  
  
"I know, I know, little one," murmured Aragorn, gently undressing Frodo to his bare skin and wrapping him in the blanket immediately after removing his clothing. "I will put you into bed as soon as you are bathed."  
  
He wrung a washcloth in the now-warmed water and began to gently wash the hobbit with it, starting with his face. Frodo squirmed away from the contact at first, but then relaxed as the warmth soothed his raw cheeks and blistered lips. A piquant herbal smell came to his nostrils and he turned his blue eyes to Aragorn in surprise.  
  
"Lavendar and peppermint," said the man, smiling at him. "It will clear your nose and hopefully settle your nausea for the time being." He continued to wring and wash Frodo's tiny body, moving down to his chest, arms and after sitting him up, his back. The sour smell of internal fluids began to leave the hobbit and his taut little body relaxed as the warmth and herbs soothed him.  
  
Aragorn arrived down at Frodo's nether regions and he looked up at the little hobbit, who was almost asleep. "Frodo, I'm going to have to wash down here, all right? It may sting a little," he warned the Halfling, who simply nodded and closed his eyes. Lifting Frodo's legs up in one hand, much as you would change an infant, Aragorn cleaned the soiled regions and paid special care to the poor raw bottom, which was just as bad as he had feared. Luckily, he had some powder used for poison ivy rash . . . Aragorn rummaged through his pack and found it, rubbing it gently into the sore, tender skin. Frodo sighed in relief even as his cheeks reddened in embarrassment.  
  
"That's better, now, hmm?" Aragorn continued talking softly to Frodo as he finished the sponge bath, pinned a fresh cloth around the hobbit's hips and drew on a clean nightshirt before taking Frodo into his arms once again. To the hobbit's surprise and ultimate mortification, Frodo began to cry.  
  
"Oh, come now, Frodo, come . . ." Aragorn began to rock Frodo, rubbing his back a little. In reality, he had virtually no idea how to comfort the hobbit without making him feel like he was more of a child than he already did, but on the other hand, Aragorn had seen grown men weep like babies, and Frodo, in his eyes, was no more than that anyway. However, this was most uncharacteristic, as Frodo was the bravest of them all, carrying the Ring, which glimmered at his throat.  
  
Frodo felt so sick, that was all . . . he was debilitated and tired, and wished for nothing but sleep. The herbs had calmed him, but what he really wanted was Bilbo, yes . . . or his mother, or someone to look after him. He wanted his own bed, his own house, warmth and comfort . . .  
  
He stopped crying slowly, the quiet sobs turning into sniffles and then into slow sighs. Aragorn said nothing, but they didn't need to voice their thoughts.  
  
Hurry, Legolas. 


	4. The Calm in the Eye of the Storm

The Calm in the Eye of the Storm  
  
It was nearing sunrise, and the camp was silent. Dew glimmered on the white surfaces of the pointed tents and the river lapped calmly at the shore as the early-morning birds began to awaken, bringing with their song the first hint of a sweet, water scented breeze. In the clearing, the fire burned on, a steady stream of smoke curling into the midnight blue sky. On the red-hot coals, the latest in a numerous line of cooking pots rested, its peppermint and lavendar scented water beginning a boil. Over the sturdy drying rack, pieces of white cloth and tiny nightshirts lay draped, steaming gently in the cool night air. And beside the fire, two figures waited anxiously for an Elf to bring news and help from a fabled tribe of his kin, deep in the Anduin's forest.  
  
Frodo was at his breaking point. The vomiting had stopped altogether - normally something he would have been happy about, but it had only stopped because he had no more in his stomach to bring up, not even acid. Aragorn had found a rare herb in his pack that quelled the brain-shaking heaving spasms that took so much out of the little Hobbit, and Frodo lay in the Man's arms, finally able to relax for the first time in two days without the fear of throwing up all over himself and everything else. Unfortunately, there had only been a little of the herb, and it didn't take away the quaking nausea that had Frodo lying as still as he could manage for fear that he would jar the tentative equilibrium he seemed to have achieved. The Hobbit wondered which was worse - the constant vomiting that made him limper than a wet dishrag, or the awful nausea that had his face turning a myriad of colours every five minutes. And then, of course, there was the ever-present diarrhea.  
  
It hadn't stopped; no, far from it. In fact, it seemed to have gotten worse with every sip of ginger tea that Aragorn tried to coax Frodo to take. With the promise of water, Frodo's ravaged little body had gone into complete revolt, and his bottom was constantly wet with the thin scour that caused Aragorn to change the Hobbit's minute nappies with every spasm for fear that the sensitive skin would peel right off. Frodo was having trouble breathing, so Aragorn supported him quietly in a reclined sitting position against his own broad chest. It seemed to help; plus the sharp fumes of peppermint-lavendar tincture rubbed on the Hobbit's little chest let him take deep breaths, drawing the precious oxygen into his lungs and remedying that problem for awhile, anyway. But all the hair had been shed from the Hobbit's feet, and his skin was sunken, at its worst around the blue eyes which didn't help by constantly tearing up, releasing more of the precious water that Frodo desperately needed. And Frodo's fever was so bad that he was passing out for alarming periods of time. If the Quest did not depend so much on the health and strength of this little Hobbit, Aragorn would have done the humane thing long ago and quietly disposed of the sickened life in an act of mercy.  
  
But Frodo had a strong will, and he would not submit to the illness. No matter how many times he passed out, something in Frodo always made sure he came back to the world of the living. He may have been throwing up for hours, but his stomach had given him a tentative rest, with the help of the alphard herb, named for the constellation in the sky. However, Aragorn was worried about the diarrhea which did not let up. Frodo had not had an outputting of urine since suppertime, and though he still complained about being put in nappies like a baby, the Hobbit was beginning to see the practicalities of that decision. He did not have any feeling left in his bowels, and any spasms that he had happened without his prior knowledge. The stool itself was the sickly colour and odour of bile, and Frodo tossed and sobbed alternately on Aragorn's lap, crying heartbreakingly whenever he was put down for any reason. The only comfort the Hobbit seemed to get was from the warmth of Aragorn's arms, and he clung to the Man like a drowning man to a lifebelt. Aragorn had never seen any man this ill, and that was the gods' honest truth.  
  
However, there was still a glimmer of hope. Legolas had still not returned, and Aragorn took this to be a good sign that perhaps the Elf had found his kin so deep into the forest. If he had, then the herbs needed to cure Frodo would surely be in their care and the Ranger knew from the hospitality of Wood-Elves that they would gladly give some to help the heroes on their Quest. It would take another day or so for the herbs to do their job on Frodo's illness, and he could not be moved in the state that he was in. Poor Samwise Gamgee had been up and down all night, fetching and carrying faithfully for his sick little master as much as he possibly could. Finally, Aragorn had sternly sent him to his bed with strict orders to stay there. The last thing he needed was for Sam to catch Frodo's horrid complaint, and with two Hobbits ill they would have to abandon precious days that could be used on the Quest.   
  
Aragorn was startled suddenly out of his reverie by a sharp cry from his charge, and he looked down quickly at Frodo to make sure he was all right. The little Hobbit arched his back and cried out again, the source of his pain manifesting itself in a surge of burning heat that Aragorn could feel even through two layers of thick nappies and his own pant leg. The Man had no idea what else to do but to rub Frodo's back soothingly, speaking to him in the healing Elvish tongue until the Hobbit relaxed again. However, this time Frodo did not settle back into his uneasy sleep, but began to wail most disconcertingly. Aragorn had heard that sound before; it was the sound of a man close to suicide.  
  
"Frodo . . . hush, hush. Legolas is coming; he will bring you the herbs that you need," Aragorn tried to soothe the hobbit.  
  
"Bilbo . . . " the hobbit sobbed. "Mama . . . it hurts, Mama . . ."  
  
"I know, doushka, this I do know." Aragorn shifted Frodo's position so that the Hobbit was lying in his arms, and lifted the nightshirt slowly, so not to chill his tiny charge. Sure enough, the clean nappy was soaked again, and Aragorn slowly drew it off, trying not to jar Frodo. For a moment, he wished he hadn't sent Sam back to his bed so that the gardener could cradle his master while Aragorn cleaned him up. Dipping his cloth into the warm scented water, he gently sponged Frodo's buttocks and fastened a clean cloth around the Hobbit's hips. Frodo's wails quietened a bit with the comfort of being warm and dry, for the moment. Aragorn shifted him into the sitting position against his chest again and rubbed the tiny hot back, murmuring alternately in Elvish and in the language of the Rohan, which he had learned on one of his many trips and was very soothing to animals and small children.  
  
Frodo was quiet again, his eyelids fluttering closed. Aragorn sent up a silent prayer for Legolas to return speedily; before sunrise, if at all possible.  
  
*  
  
The Elf ran quickly, his feet making no sound on the forest floor. Animals with keener hearing than his looked up at his passing, but none of them were disturbed. Elves, after all, were very like themselves, and would not harm them. So the deer and small forest animals he passed simply returned to their night's rest as the Elf speeded his way to the heart of the Anduin's forest.  
  
There was no telling if the Elves were still there; nay, if they had ever been there at all. But Legolas knew from his vast experience of the forest where the certain herbs that Frodo needed grew; and they loved the canopy of shade they would get in its heart. He could feel the Hobbit's pain from this far away; Frodo was close to death and Legolas knew the Hobbit's future depended on his mission. So he hurried, keeping a watchful eye as the trees grew closer together and the forest floor became bare of anything but pine needles and leaves.  
  
As he ran, he kept an ear out for the music of the Wood-Elves. As they were his kin, it was not surprising that he should be able to pick up their soul-song from quite a ways away. He could sense some sort of music, but whether it was the constant ominous bass rumble of the Dark Lord or the light flute-like sounds of the forest itself, he did not have time to determine. He was listening for the silvery bell-tones of those who knew the forest as well as the Valar that made it, and when his sensitive ears picked up the melody, he increased his speed tenfold to get there.  
  
The problem was, he kept losing the song. He didn't know why this was; Elven-song was constant and static. Even the brass tones of the rising sun, finally showing a crack of light along the wooded horizon, didn't interrupt it. But Legolas could not hear his brethren regularly, and this worried him. Could his own hope be so strong it could pulse a melody of his homeland, falsely leading him nowhere? Legolas decided maybe the Elves wished to be hidden, and an occasional note would mix with the symphony of the forest when they were caught off guard. But he needed those notes to be more frequent, because time was running out.  
  
It was another hour before he found the mallorn tree. They didn't grow naturally outside of Lorien; if a golden tree was found anywhere else, Elves had once been there. The Elf's light heart leaped and he stopped to examine the age of the leaves. They weren't very old - mallorn trees also didn't regenerate themselves unless Elves were around to lend them their necessary rebirthing strains of melody. Legolas knew then he was on the right track, and was as happy as he had ever been in his homeland when he glimpsed the carefully hidden silver-knotted dwellings of the Wood-Elves ahead.  
  
He didn't know if it would reach Aragorn, but he sent out a trill of excited music towards the unhappy little clearing he had left. If Aragorn heard it, he would know help had been finally found.  
  
*  
  
The sun burst in all its flaming glory over the trees, gilding the river and lighting everything in its path. Aragorn arched his back in a stretch, feeling the stiffness of a white night deep in his bones. Frodo was asleep, his tiny worried face peaceful for the moment. Things seemed to be looking up.  
  
And in the thrill of the melody that was the forest, a frenetic little trill sounded at the end of a phrase. Hope was still alive in these parts, and thank Eru, thought Aragorn, getting up to change Frodo before the others awakened and decisions would have to be made.  
  
The Hobbit still had a fighting chance. 


End file.
